I grew up constantly aware of that stone beneath the surface. It was only one among many, and for years, the need to tell the story of that stone felt necessary. Telling the story of the actual people did not. Sometimes silence is better.
As I tiptoed through those murky waters, there were friends who muddled through with me. We went on stupid adventures, hitchhiking out of town, mingling with hobos, losing our shoes, and pissing off grown ups. And much more. Many of us made it through okay. Some of us did not. This story is for and about all of them, in a way. All of those people who had fun with me and freaked out with me while we were just trying to figure out how to be people in the world, and who those people might be.
If any of you guys are still alive and reading this and have figured it out yet, let me know.
So, I thank you all, whether you happen to still be breathing or not.
And I thank once again my storytelling friends at the Internet Writing Workshop for the encouragement, the brutal honesty, and most importantly, for all the stories. Special thanks to Irma Navarro, Silvia Villalobos, and Jack Shakely for giving the early drafts of this story a read when I first started scribbling the bones of it down in 2014.
I’m very thankful to Soundgarden for Badmotorfinger. It was only after listening to the entire album on repeat that I was able to finish this story when it stalled out somewhere around the fourth chapter. Pour one out for Chris Cornell.
It’s always a wonderful thing when one art form finds another and they just sort of go together. Like how the totally ace cover photo by Jake Weirick seems to go with this story. Big thanks to him. Go check out more of his rad photos on Instagram at @boreganic or his portfolio at: https://unsplash.com/@weirick
Thank you to Olivier for supporting me no matter what and keeping me fed with all manner of strange foods and weird cuisines.
Most importantly, I thank you for choosing this book, for giving me some of your time and letting me tell you this story. I hope you’ll stick around for the next one.
Be careful where you throw stones. Tread carefully through the water.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rasmenia Massoud was born just outside of Washington D.C. somewhere during the era of Hunter S. Thompson vs. Nixon, but never lived there. She just happened to be in the area. She grew up in Colorado where she made a living with both blue and white collars at various times in her life before deciding that collars are not good, and that writing stories was very good.
In addition to spending several years in various Colorado towns, she has also lived in Florida, Pennsylvania, Indiana, England, Paris, and the French countryside; traveling to a number of states and countries in between.
Dozens of her stories have been published online and in print in various journals and anthologies. She also blogs semi-regularly about the awkwardness, frustration and joy of expatriation, food, the craft of writing, and the learning curves that come from being a broken, awkward, and dysfunctional human. She currently lives in Brighton, England with her husband, Olivier, their loyal chocolate lab, and a mischievous feline sidekick.
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ALSO BY RASMENIA MASSOUD
Human Detritus
Broken Abroad
You Don’t See Any of This
The Fight Belonged to Her
Circuits End
An Occurrence on West Cherry Street
Tied Within Page 6